


Abigail

by shiverfawkes



Series: Trans!John Watson [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Apologies, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Trans Character, Trans John Watson, Trans Male Character, argument
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 05:09:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16340396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiverfawkes/pseuds/shiverfawkes
Summary: “John.”John looked up, his deep blue eyes locking Sherlock's icy pale ones. He made a hum of acknowledgement, indicating the taller man to reply. It wasn’t often he mentioned anything other than a case beginning after John came down stairs. Usually he had the kindness to let him read the paper in peace.“Who’s Abigail?”





	Abigail

John walked down the stairs to the living area of their flat. Sherlock was sitting in his chair, knees hunched to his chest, laptop resting upon them.

He was wearing nothing but his dressing gown, a pair of boxers and socks. John wasn’t complaining. Though he tried not to stare for too long.

Once a cup of tea was in his hand, and on the side table beside Sherlock, he sat in his own chair and looked at the paper sherlock handed him the moment his bum hit the seat.

Not a word had been spoken between the two but, yet the good morning routine had been completed.

“John.”

John looked up, his deep blue eyes locking Sherlock’s icy pale ones. He made a hum of acknowledgement, indicating the taller man to reply. It wasn’t often he mentioned anything other than a case beginning after John came down stairs. Usually he had the kindness to let him read the paper in peace.

“Who’s Abigail?” His voice was that same, nonchalant monotone drawl.

But the words stabbed through John like a ragged dagger and he felt his heart stop, his breath slow, the world come to a halt around him as the sentence reverberated in his head. He choked on his tea, setting down the mug and the paper, not caring when the paper fell on the floor and his tea spilled over on to the table.

He hadn’t heard that name for a very long time.

He was surprised he even recognised it, but it caught his throat in an iron grip, suffocating him as he tried to construct a convincing enough reply.

“W-What? I- I don’t know an Abigail, sorry.” He suddenly felt very aware of his own body, tugging at his jumper, smoothing a hand over his chest even though he knew there hadn’t been anything but muscle there for quite some time. He knew it was flat, he knew he was a man.

But that name. That name made him want to tear his own skin apart.

“John. I'm the worlds only consulting detective, with a hesitation like that you aren’t fooling anyone, don’t insult me. Who, is, Abigail.” His voice went lower, gravelly, each word more pronounced than the last, like an interrogation. His faced flushed under the stare, as he stared right back at his flatmate.

John took in a breath, feeling his blood boil beneath his skin. He knew exactly what sherlock was doing and he hated it.

“Shut up. You know, fine rightly who Abigail is. You just love- _this._ ” John’s voice was deathly quiet, stern and shaking.

The corner of the sociopath’s mouth quirked up. “This?”

“Yes. This. Making me look like a tit so you seem clever, humiliating me first thing in the fucking morning because its what fits your humour for today. Well let me inform you, _Sherlock_ ,” He spat the other man’s name like acid off his tongue, and Sherlock appeared to visibly recoil, as John leaned forward, pointing at him. “Some people, they take this a lot more seriously, sensitively. This- sexuality-” He squeezed his eyes shut. “ _Gender._ ” His voice came like he was choking back tears now.

No. No he was not about to cry. Not when he was in the middle of making a point.

Sherlock, now realising he’d done something wrong, went to reach forward, but John stood up before he could touch him.

“This isn’t something you can just- I’m not- This isn’t a subject for a bloody experiment alright!” He yelled, and Sherlock flinched.

Then the anger drained away, it fizzled out and his chest felt hollow again. “You know what? Forget it, I'm going out.” John replied, his voice regaining its usual tone, pulling on his jacket and opening the door, walking down the stairs with heavy footsteps.

Sherlock stood, walking over the coffee table after him. “Where?” He asked, eyebrows furrowed.

“I don’t know.” John replied, not even looking back.

“John- wait!” Sherlock yelled but the door slammed closed before he finished the last word.

Slamming the living room door, he flopped against the sofa, ignoring his dressing gown draping open, the cold washing over him. “Stupid.” He muttered to himself, pushing himself up. “Stupid, stupid, _stupid!_ ” He yelled, throwing his chair to the floor, up righting it a second later and flopping against it.

“Yoo-hoo!” Mrs Hudson called opening the door. “I heard John pop out, have you had a domestic?” She asked, glancing around the flat, her eyes focusing on the empty chair.

“Its not important, Mrs Hudson.” Sherlock muttered, checking his phone. He was tempted to text his flatmate, to apologise, but his stubbornness caught hold of him, and instead he decided to be infuriated with Mycroft, the bastard had given him the information after all.

She rolled her eyes. “I'm sure. Is there anything I can to do help?”

“I said its not important.” Sherlock replied, his tone harsher this time. He would have apologised but he was too busy texting a long winded, insulting email to his brother.

She hummed in response, bustling her way about to check on things. “Alright then, if you say so.”

He threw his phone across the room, after reading Mycroft’s reply, his phone hit the cushions, and he drew his knees up again, closing his eyes and resting his head between them.

He knew it was his fault.

Sherlock remained in that same position five hours later when John came home.

“You haven’t moved since I left, have you?” The older man asked. Sherlock heard the rustle of the paper again, knowing John had regained his position in his chair. “Look, about this morning. I'm sorry, I lost my temper, I shouldn’t have-“

Sherlock sighed heavily, cutting him off. “Christ, John if you think you’re the one in the wrong here, then I’ve clearly given you too much credit. I was a prick, I disrespected you and I shouldn’t have. If I wanted to know about it, I should’ve approached it differently, and I didn’t.” He replied, tilting his head to the side so his voice wasn’t muffled against his knees, so that John could hear his apology and know he meant it. “But I do think you should talk about it. You haven’t. Not to Harry, clearly not to your parents, not even your therapist. Why not me?” He replied, his tone was soft, welcoming, he invited openness but didn’t demand it.

“Do you want to know?” John asked, licking his lips, flicking through the paper as though he didn’t care, his eyes merely skimming over the words.

“I'm indifferent.”

“How _did_ you know in the first place?”

Sherlock glanced up at him, the taller man’s tired eyes connecting with Johns own, his face was riddled with annoyance. “Mycroft has a knack for digging up records, birth certificates, name changes, that sort of thing. I think he found it amusing.”

“Remind me to punch your brother in his ghastly enormous proboscis, next time I see him.” John grumbled, shaking the paper to straighten it out.

“Please.” Sherlock scoffed. “As if you’ll need me to remind you, though I’d be careful, he may smell what you’re thinking.”

John resisted the smile, reminding himself he was still annoyed. Sherlock picked up on him, offering him a genuine grin.

“Abigail, as far as I'm concerned, was never a real person. If she _was_ \- she died at eight years old. John Watson was born about then, unfortunately in her body.”

“You make it sound like an exorcism.”

“It may as well have been.” John breathed out a laugh. “I tried to kill myself then. What kind of eight-year-old wants to die? It seems stupid now, but I wanted to play rugby with the other boys, of course they wouldn’t let me, called me names, pushed me over. I figured if I climbed high enough, the fall from the tree would kill me.”

Sherlock gave him a look, and an eyeroll.

“I was eight, and average at best, don’t give me that look.” John replied. “Growing up after that was awful.”

“Did you ever try again?”

“Suicide?” Sherlock nodded. “I thought about it. The teenage years were horrendous. You can imagine what it’s like I'm sure. Wanting to tear yourself out of your own skin because your mind doesn’t align with it. You say the body is transport, but imagine somebody vomited in that transport, and it was too tight, wrongly shaped in all the worst places, always too loud or too soft. Never right. Imagine that.”

“Sounds like hell. I would’ve made sure to die.” Sherlock muttered, clasping his hands as he rested his chin on them.

“Almost did. Broken arm, broken ribs, bruised lungs, barely escaped a puncture.” John could remember it, clear as crystal. “But I found something to live for in that hospital, so I didn’t try again.”

Sherlock’s eyes brightened as the pieces clicked together to form a full image in his head. “Other people. That’s why you wanted to be a doctor isn’t it? You admired them.” Sherlock replied, he paused for a second before continuing. He’d looked up now, his arms wrapped around his legs again, the dressing gown dropping over his shoulders, exposing his collar bones. “Why the army then?”

John shrugged. “I wanted to prove myself. Prove I was just as strong as the other guys. They put me in the female regiment at first, I don’t blame them, Abigail Watson with her lesbian haircut and bandaged chest, who would even consider?” He laughed, it was bitter. “I began the transition when I moved out, changed my name, got a prescription for testosterone, the whole shebang. I demanded they transfer me, and they did.”

“They didn’t take you seriously at first did they?”

“Nope.”

“You proved them wrong didn’t you?”

“Yep.”

“Fantastic.” Sherlock was staring at him in awe, he was impressed, and John felt pride. “When did you get surgery. Your chest I mean.”

“I was never interested in phalloplasty.” John noted quickly before he continued. “I was twenty-four maybe, it hurt like bloody hell. The whole squadron called me princess for a week, because I took sick leave from drills.” He grinned recalling the memories. “They stopped that after I knocked McDowell to the ground. Called me a girly excuse for a drag-king.”

Sherlock frowned before continuing. “I take it Harry doesn’t know?”

“I told her. She chose not to listen. I’m always going to be the quirky little sister.” John replied, sighing sadly, finally setting the paper down, deciding Sherlock had somewhat made up for the morning.

“You never were her sister.” Sherlocks voice was low, his tone sincere. He truly believed it. Just as John did.

“At least you see that.” John paused for a minute before sniffing, glancing up at Sherlock to meet his gaze. “So, you don’t care?”

“Why would I? You have the mind of the man, and the body of one, give or take a few things. But that’s none of my concern.” Sherlock chuckled. He stood up, retying his dressing gown, so that just his legs and a few inches of his chest were showing, rather than everything that wasn’t covered by his boxers. “And in the instance we were to establish a relationship, it would still lack significance, I'm just as good of a top as I am a bottom.”

John nearly choked. Was this Sherlocks idea of flirting?

“I'm going to Bart’s. I have to do an experiment, care to join me?” He asked, as if he hadn’t nearly killed John with his last sentence, picking up the mugs that had been left sitting from the earlier morning.

John chose to ignore it as well. “Yeah, sure. You may want to get dressed though, Molly might faint.” He replied and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I'm sure you’re enjoying the show.” He pressed the ghost of a kiss against John’s temple as he walked to his bedroom, setting the mugs on the kitchen counter.

John rolled his eyes, flushing red. “You’re a right berk!” He called after the taller man.

“Indeed, but a smart one!”


End file.
